


unshapely and wearisome

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6435886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mathe encounters some poor poetry, witnesses the beginning of a tradition, and does not enjoy himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unshapely and wearisome

“The metre,” said Councillor Mathe, passing on the bundle of papers, “is very poor.”

He passed it blindly, and felt it lifted from his hand. Since that long day in that long columned hall, he felt his words to be followed by two steps’ worth of silence, and his eyes avoided. The new king did not want him, that was obvious enough, but the law constrained him. His colleagues, resentful over their own complicity in certain recent events not now discussed, cared for his presence even less. 

In turn, he did not much care for theirs. But to have the pull of that medallion around his neck was to be great indeed – even if one was conscious, as he frequently was, of standing blinded at that very great height. 

His esteemed colleague coughed. “Perhaps it is a traditional Akielon form.” His tone was mild. 

None of them had any substantial knowledge of Akielon poetry. The new king, the boy decried as traitor, was not present. His lover his brother’s killer was still secluded. Lady Vannes, who was to join them, had not yet arrived from the border provinces.

This was not, stricte, an official meeting, for in those there would be so much ground to cover for months that when Chelaut had come to his rooms to say there was a minor matter and would he come to Herode’s rooms where they were all assembled, there had been no objection that it must first be reported to the king and made official. 

All Mathe knew of Akielon poetry was this: when it was not about war it was about something rural best left to the peasantry. That would, at least, explain the metre. He said, “Is this what is to follow? The troglodytes find our forms too sophisticated to twist their barbarian tongues around, and so must pervert our language with theirs? Is this to be the end of the works of the glorious Marcoul of Mimbaste or the renowned Liutgarde? Perhaps the great library at Arles is to be consigned to the flames and all our knowledge of literature to be reduced to that which may easily be sang at a feast? This is insupportable!”

Herode sighed. “I hardly think anyone can be accused of harbouring such intentions. The situation is not dire. If we could proceed past prosodic concerns…” he let his words drift off into the silence, as if to give the impression, thought Mathe with distaste, that he was so old to have lost the strand of thought. And old enough to be unjust with his rebukes, for a mere week ago, Audin had spent an age recounting some insipid stories about his nieces, just turned ten and eight and three. Mathe’s own sister, who lived near Netivau and was doing something very clever, if beyond his comprehension, with the mining there, he did not press upon them. But the Council was, for some, an occasion for unstately chatter, in the absence of the new king, around whom none dared digress. 

“The words are ours. Yet it is the words that are in question,” said Audin. He did not look up, sifting through his pockets and pulling this item and that out only to replace them. At length he produced one of his familiar handkerchiefs, and pressed it against his face. He appeared to breathe in the scent; his words when they came were muffled. “It is troublesome.”

“Minor dissent is a constant occurrence,” said Jeurre with a frown. “This group in this town or another are always displeased with some measure. One cannot treat all criticism as treason.” His gaze passed very steadily around the table. None of them were great enthusiasts of the new king’s vision of a future joined with Akielos. 

But that, of course, was the role of the Council, not of some anonymous scribbler with literary pretensions and a likely reality of indigence. Mathe took up his cup and drank. 

Chelaut said, “As you say the law does not serve punishment for suspect literary allusions.” He hesitated. In the past few days they had all made themselves achingly familiar with the statutes on treason. Their findings were not uniformly comforting. Chelaut cleared his throat, and proceeded. “Regardless, I should think it best not to encourage this. Perhaps if the public were to be provided with an alternative source of expressing their, em, literary pursuits.”

Audin put down his handkerchief. “If I had the work in question – thank you.” He waited for it to be dutifully passed down. “Ah, perhaps if a scribe would copy it.”

“We do not need more of this nonsense!” said Mathe. “As Councillor Chelaut says, it ought not be encouraged.”

As Chelaut did not express any enthusiasm at being so agreed with, Audin took up his turn again. His left hand was folding and unfolding the silk it held. He did not appear to be aware of this. “This is a case of more than just suspect literary allusions. If we turn to stanza seventeen,” he paused, “or in any case the section beginning with the fifth line of page three. Certainly I will agree it would be more easily discussed in a more structured format. Yet this part about Rotlans is evidently a criticism of the king’s – ” He straightened his handkerchief, lifted it up as he gestured with a flick of his hand, a quick look around the room. “Well, we all know.”

They did all know. Mathe’s medallion may have hung the loosest, but they all felt their positions precarious since that day in the great hall, Damianos the prince-killer allowed to give evidence, the Prince barely covered in what it pleased the Akielons to term clothing, like a dire sign of what was to come. 

The silence stretched on. 

After a moment, Jeurre said, “These are still uncertain times. Confusion may perhaps lead to poor allusions. We need not ascribe motive to artistic posturing.” 

The form was certainly confused. The allusions too lacked congruity, had been, perhaps, a little haphazardly chosen. Mathe opened his mouth. 

But it was Chelaut who spoke. “A literary festival is held in Aiton every year. Perhaps if a combined entertainment were to be held,” his tone lacked enthusiasm, “well, even here?” 

The words slipped out of his mouth in shock. “To have our literature mixed with that of the Akielons?” 

The smile that received had a sardonic edge to it. “The Councillor could, perhaps, engage some skilled wordsmiths to demonstrate the excellent forms that have been passed down to us and refined over the years, and the extent of their fluidity. Akielons may see an improvement in their literature. And other art forms, similarly.” He waved his hand as though to indicate the blandness of the rooms in which they found themselves, the corridors beyond them, the palace and the city, all pale gloss. 

The starkness made it all more horrific. Akielons only destroyed. 

He heard himself say, “Their chief output in these last years has been to glory in the events of Marlas!” and heard also his voice shake on the name. Mathe had been coached by some of the best orators Estivaux could boast, had trained a voice that carried well even in the columned Akielon halls, and which had served him well until it had carried him up those four shallow steps onto a dais that felt like the cliff edge nearby. But there were few families in the country left untouched by that conflict of several years past, when that warmonger had called forth his banners and collected his forgers to produce ahistorical claims with which to puff out his speeches.

There were some murmurs. Audin pressed his handkerchief over his face. Chelaut shifted his papers. Jeurre raised his chalice and drained it dry. 

But Herode only raised a hand. He was still, in the absence of any decision to the contrary, the head of the Council. Silence fell. “I hardly think, when his brother – that the king will tolerate that. You may rest assured of that. But the idea is a good one. It does fit in well with the king’s plans. He will be pleased, I think.” 

“Then we are decided,” said Jeurre in a hoarse voice. “If you would speak of it to His Highness?”

That did quieten Mathe. Nobody else objected. Herode agreed to undertake the task with suitable haste.

Jeurre had already pushed back his chair to leave, and the others were shuffling their papers when Audin spoke again. “But perhaps, it is the work of an Akielon who seeks to spread dissent among us. The arguments have an air of artifice around them. Nobody educated believes Alys to have had anything to do with Alix of Estivaux, but perhaps here they do not read our history.”

“Clearly nobody educated would produce such a travesty of a poem,” said Mathe. “They would instead abandon any elements of their tale that they could not bring into compliance with the metre; without a good and consistent style, a poem is little more than words ill-positioned to fill up a scroll.”

Jeurre frowned, but did not move any closer to the table. His gaze swept around the room, avoiding the council members, until it found its way to a commode atop which rested a time-peace. With a sigh, he said, “I believe on certain minor rural estates the belief is still propagated.”

Chelaut said, “I don’t believe many Akielons would have even the desultory knowledge demonstrated here.”

Audin, undismayed, continued on, shaking the offending article for emphasis. “But look here towards the end, just after Izarns dies. I cannot conceive that anybody would treat their daughters thus. Does this not suggest that some Akielon believes that as we do not breed bastards as they do, we must avoid such degeneracy by almost imprisoning our children? This is a shameful charge indeed!”

Before any had time to make any reply about Akielon barbarism, there was a knock on the door. It opened to reveal a tall Akielon. With a chill, Mathe recognised him as having come with the prince-killer to the trial. Perhaps this, then, was to be the end. And to have spent it like this! 

“My lord kyros,” said Herode, using the table to pull himself up. “Good day.” His voice did not shake.

Nikandros nodded to him and then broadly to the council in place of a bow. He moved further into the room, but the soldiers guarding the hallways did not stream in behind him. But they on the Council were all older men, perhaps known already as poor fighters, and in any case, what hope did they have in resistance? Perhaps removal from the Council too was now to be accomplished using Akielon methods. 

“Oh,” said Nikandros, his hand stretching towards the papers in Audin’s hand. “It is good that you are all gathered as friends.” Then in somewhat stilted Veretian, he informed them that the king – he did not specify which one – wished to meet with them. 

This was not much of a relief to Mathe, but Chelaut seemed cheered. “Perhaps if you could take a look at this, Sir, and inform us whether the allusions are such that are commonly known in Akielos?” said he. His Akielon was very fast, the beginnings falling onto the endings. 

Mathe’s frown was mirrored on Jeurre’s face, and Audin too did not look pleased, but the words having been uttered, and Nikandros already expressing his compliance, the poem was dutifully passed down. 

He too read it with a frown.

“Perhaps not common,” said he, putting it aside, “but certainly many in the court could demonstrate more than a passing familiarity. But while I’m not familiar with Veretian verse, I wouldn’t think this likely to become popular in Akielos. It’s not a style we’re used to, and – if you will allow the criticism – the metre seems to me somewhat inconsistent.”

A long moment passed. Nobody looked at Mathe. 

“Thank you,” said Herode. He coughed sharply, twice. “The king’s business is undoubtedly more urgent, shall we proceed?” 

And he tucked the offending article among his papers, and led them all out of his chambers.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A. E. Housman's 'The Name and Nature of Poetry'.


End file.
